"Why, I probably owe it to my small efforts in literature," Victor answered laughingly.
"Yes, of course," replied the Postmaster-general; "but would you like me to tell you exactly how you got it?"
"Certainly, I should be glad to know, I must confess."
"Do you remember the conspiracy of Saumur?"
"Of course."
"Do you recollect a young man named Delon who compromised himself in that conspiracy?"
"Perfectly well."
"You remember writing to him or, rather, to his mother, offering the outlaw half your room at No. 10 rue de Mézières?"
Victor made no answer this time; he stared at the Postmaster-general with startled eyes, not amazed at the magnificence of the worthy M. Roger, but at his powers of penetration. He had written that letter alone, between his own four walls: he had not told a single soul about it. Not even his own nightcap—that confidant which Louis XI. thought ought to be burned, since it had been the recipient of certain secrets—knew anything about it, seeing he never wore a nightcap.
"Well," continued the Postmaster-general, "that letter was laid before King Louis XVIII., who already knew you as a poet. 'Ah! ah!' said the king, 'he possesses great talents and a good heart ... that young man must be rewarded!' and he ordered a pension of twelve hundred francs to be settled on you."